Traveling the World One Day at a Time

Atlanta

March 30, 2010

We spent six months living in Panama, most of that time on a
tiny island off the Caribbean coast where only a footpath leads from one
side to the other, and everyone knows each other by first name. There
are no big name stores, no buying in bulk and never a crowd. Then we
went back to the United States.

Before we left Panama, though, we spent a week in the San Blas islands. Wichaub Huala, one of the bigger of those islands, had even even fewer amenities than Bocas. One lightbulb lit the path in front of the guest house, and the few toilets were meant for visitors. Those living there simply didn't seem to need them. We felt oddly at home there in spite of the difference.

We went to the mall in search of clothing. Most of ours had been destroyed in Bocas. That’s sort of the nature of
living on the water. Sand, salt and rain can do that to your stuff. And while a salt
bitten sundress with thinning patches wears perfectly well there, here, in
shiny clean Atlanta, it seems hobo-ish.

We parked in the side of the mall near Macy's, wended our way through the men's section to the open expanse by California Pizza Kitchen overlooking the food court with Chik-Fil-A, Nathan’s and Mrs. Field’s When I was in high school, there was a movie theater there too, and to this day, even though I know it’s gone, I somehow forget and find myself standing in front of a wall wondering where to buy tickets. No movies or curly fries today, though. Instead, up the elevator to level three.

We passed by Lindt where a large woman in an apron offered up a silver tray of truffles and greet-the-public smile plastered on her face. We each took one then sat on a bench near Panera Bread Company to eat.

When I say eat, I mean as an event. You take only a small bite, letting the taste cover every surface of your mouth with not-too-sweet, creamy, gorgeous chocolate. I shared my dark chocolate with Lila, and she traded me for a bit of her white. I hadn’t experienced anything like that in a very long time.

Cacao beans grow all over the Bocas archipelago. One of our last nights there, we splurged and stayed at the La Loma Jungle Lodge. Wooden cabins built on stilts in the middle of Isla Bastiementos.
The only way out was a boat in one direction and a good pair of shoes and machete in any other.

But why would we want to go anywhere else when we could pad barefoot around the grounds, an old cacao plantation. The owners cultivate the beans and use them to make cakes and cookies they serve during long luxurious meals in the main lodge house at night. During the day, two local women work behind the main lodge to grind the beans into paste, then dry the paste into a fine rich cocoa powder. Still a very long journey from there to the chocolate we held in our hands on that bench our first day back.

Meanwhile, folks bustled around us going who knows where and moving faster than anyone ever moved on the islands.
I’d forgotten about rushing. There was never a need on Bocas. Rush where? The beach, waves and little red frogs found only on those islands would still be there. It would still be hot. It might rain, but it might not.

Every day, we walked down a sandy path to one of the beaches where we collected shells, sponge and anything else we found washed on shore.
Lila ran ahead of me, sometimes lagged behind. She disappeared behind a bunch of palm trees only to materialize again on the other side of a wooden plank passing over a little ravine filled with tiny red fiddler crabs and the occasional large blue. Sometimes Lila scored with a raggedy toy washed up from the water. We brought back our treasures, painted them or with them. Popped the bubbles in the sea weed. Then made dinner and went to bed when we were tired.

Shopping, generally only for supplies, meant a boat into town to one of the stores there. My favorite was Lorelei's super gourmet where sometimes chocolate chips and cans of White Rose chickpeas, the bottom shelf store brand I know from New York. graced the shelves. Those chick peas are even more exotic to Lenox Mall, though.

That’s when Lila took off her shoes and started running down the shiny brown and white marble floor to disappear behind a shifting curtain of people moving into GAP, out of The Icing, stopping at Starbucks for a coffee and into check the latest great deal at BCBG.

I rushed to catch up with her, panicking a bit, and guided her back to our bench where her grimy beach kissed shoes sat untouched.
I asked her to put her shoes back on.

November 04, 2009

This summer in the US was spectacular, from time spent with family to Burning Man. This year, though, we had the opportunity to really explore Atlanta. It's music, art and culture. And now, for the first time in a very long time, a guest post from Noah.

Over the last decade, I've seen Atlanta rapidly transform from a small culturally hollow town -- nicknamed by some “The City That Never Wakes -- to a vibrant and aware metropolis.

Back in the day, high quality gallery or museum shows were few and far between. The only somewhat edgy places in town were the 2 blocks of Little 5 Points and the all night eclectic health food diner, R Thomas of Buckhead. Which, quite frankly, were only edgy by comparison to the rest of town.

Today it is another story entirely. Diverse communities of young artists have made their mark on previous cast off areas like East Atlanta. Little 5 has grown 10 times over and there is a thriving music scene with excellent venues like the Flaming Lips show we caught at Chastain Park.

The most prominent and well respected museum in Atlanta is The High. It has been growing rapidly and curating some substantial shows. Highlights include travelling exhibits of works by Monet, Piccaso, Degas and in recent years art lent by the Louvre and Metropolitan. Lowlights include the exhibit known to me as "what ridiculous shit does Elton John house in his Atlanta condo?" but I digress.

After all this I was still a little taken aback when I passed by Piedmont Park to see the "Moore in America" exhibit advertised on a giant placard outside of the Atlanta Botanical Garden. I decided to explore further.

Henry Moore has been an incredible influence on modern sculpture and in my mind is up there with such luminaries as Alberto Giacometti and Jean Arp. His representational figures and more abstract works maintain a style that is unique and inspirational. Expert at portraying the tension that exists in all of us, he seamlessly portrays Internal and external forces working in harmony. This is accomplished using convulsing organic forms, textures, varying surface effects and the interplay of light on his sculptures.

Moore once said, "I would rather have a piece of my sculpture put in a landscape, almost any landscape , than in, or on, the most beautiful building I know.".

This exhibit (showing through December 31) focuses on the large-scale monumental works that Moore produced later in his career. The sculptures are meticulously placed over water (see Goslar Warrior, 1973-4), flower beds (see Hill Arches,1973) or overlooking the multitude of traditional fixtures in this garden (see Reclining Figure: Angle, 1979). Most of the work I had seen in other venues have been done in bronze. It was refreshing to see some of his later work, like Large Reclining Figure (1984), rising out of a lush flower bed done using white luminous fiberglass.

June 03, 2009

They talk about Salta as a woman. Salta la linda, they call her. You may also meet her friend, Cerveza Salta Negra. A gorgeous dark beer and again I am in love. Perhaps I wouldn't be quite so enamored with this thick, chocolately beer if I didn't live in the city. But I do and I am.

Sundays, during the day, barricades block the street to traffic, allowing local artists to set up shop. Here, you'll find some of the most chic and varied restaurants of the city. There's even sushi, truly surprising in a place where asado, fiambres --platters of meats, cheeses, olives and the like -- and empanadas reign. Saltenos and visitors flock to this bantam weight, but growing, neighborhood for a drink or dinner.

My night culminated at one of the many Balcarce night clubs dancing to reggaeton - note, originated in Panama - with Damien, our latest couchsurfer from Australia, and Amelia, Paola and Daniela, Salteno couchsurfers, The night, I must admit, is a bit of a blur as we celebrated the imminent departure of Amelia and Daniela, sisters, for Israel by drinking bottle after bottle of a very sweet, fizzy wine.

February 05, 2009

We packed the car to stuffed and drove out of Brooklyn. Over the Verrazano into New Jersey and on on on. We went through Hershey, Graceland, Rome, Paris and Amsterdam. Panama City, Lima, Miami, Buffalo and Buenos Aires. And except for a brief and terrible moment in Harrisonburg, VA, where Noah and I got into a screaming fight and almost called everything -- the trip, the marriage, the whole thing -- quits, we never looked back.

Well, of course I looked back. I thought about friends, places, memories, but I never felt sad.

Until recently.

The past two months I´ve been horribly homesick. Which home? I´m not even sure. I just miss...well...I miss.

I miss our IKEA MALM bed in Brooklyn and the way the maroon curtains tinted the room with their color.

I miss lazy days sitting with our newborns at Naidre´s (used to be Cammareri Brothers Bakery of Moonstruck fame)

I miss Chinese food. Lord knows why. I never eat it when I can get it. But the fact that I can´t find any places here that are in anyway similar to the Chinese food I want, suddenly, I need it.

I miss Sunday afternoons with the whole fam damily in Atlanta.

I miss knowing where to get a good haircut and where to find shoes that aren´t gladiator sandals.

I miss peanut butter and maple syrup. (PLEASE IF YOU VISIT BRING SOME)

Most of the things I miss are silly. Usually food. Usually foods I don´t eat. It´s random what will strike a chord and suddenly this deep longing develops somewhere between my stomach and my heart.

Would I go back? I suppose it´s possible for us to leave here and return to any of the places we´ve lived. Top choices being Brookyn, Buffalo (clearly I´m eating my words on this one) and Atlanta.

But we´re here now, and much as I miss, I don´t want to go back. I want, well, I´m not entirely sure what I want. It´s hard to believe whatever void in me can be filled with peanut butter and sweet and sour chicken with tangy neon sauce and bits of pineapple.

November 27, 2008

Sitting in Miami airport. This section hasn't been remodeled yet and thus it reminds me of 1980 when I traveled back and forth to South Africa with my parents. A big messy sprawl of people with no sense or organization. The television behind me fights with the gate announcements and people talking. And getting here from our arrival gate wound us through a maze of walkways, escalators, doorways and trains that would make the deathstar proud.

But now we're here and our flight is about to board. Lila is exploring the seats, floor and her drawings with he magnifying glass, a present from my parents and a great compact travel activity. I didn't really want to leave. I'm tired of traveling, moving, resettling. For me, staying in one place, doing the same things and knowing my way around is more interesting these days. It made closing the door at our rented place in Atlanta difficult. Moreso than any closed door before.

Right before we left, a cardinal flew into the house. My first thought? "Bye." but of course, we used a towel to capture it as the poor thing fluttered and squawked at windows, getting caught in the blinds. We took it to the door, lifted our hands to the air and opened the towel. It was beautiful watching its red feathers disappear into the orange autumn leaves and blue sky.

November 18, 2008

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

The woman behind the counter asked me a question. Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

“Oh. Where is that?”

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

(ps. We plan to go back for another turn on the ride. This time, Lila’s taking pictures.)

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

The woman behind the counter asked me a question. Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

“Oh. Where is that?”

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

November 10, 2008

Few know this about me, but when I drive, I change into another person. I have no patience for stupidity and seem to find endless stupidity on these roads. People who are slow to go when the light turns green make me crazy. If you honk at me without good reason -- and you'll be hard pressed to find a good reason -- you'll hear me spew words that would turn a construction worker's head.

Noah met me in NY and didn't see me drive until a good four months into our relationship. Imagine his surprise to see this soft-voiced woman suddenly turn into Linda Blair. Lila, for her part, routinely tells me "Mommy, it's not nice to call people an idiot" when she's in the back seat.

"You're right, honey. I shouldn't say that."

"You really shouldn't," adds Noah quiety with fear in his eyes.

I am more than lucky that she has chosen not to repeat many of the other choice morsels she's heard (at least not yet).

Atlanta drivers, in particular, make me crazy.

Most of the day -- while people are at work -- traffic moves clearly and quickly. But then, then, the work day releases and thousands upon thousands of people scurry out of their offices into their cars and start navigating their vehicles on the streets with wild abandon.

They horrify me.

"But aren't NYC drivers so much worse?" you're probably asking. No.

See, people in NY drive like lunatics, too. They think nothing of leaning out the window to scream obscenties at a neighboring car. Or swerving from lane to lane just to meet their destination a few moments earlier. But at least with all that, you have this underlying feeling that these drivers know what they're doing.

In Atlanta, and indeed the south in general, somehow i'm not instilled with the same confidence. Example. The next time you drive on the highways here, notice all the skid marks. Now notice the roads are straight, not a curve in sight. There are very few cars on the road as compared to a NYC street any time of day. And the weather is rarely bad enough to warrant the skids and broken tire shards littering the highway.

What are these people doing?

Sigh.

I guess you can take me out of NY, put me on the beach, show me the beauty of Buffalo or the tastes of the south of France and Italy. I may be happy to have left the disjointed, moves-too-fast-to see life in NY, but a part of me will always be a New Yorker. A Brooklyn girl.

October 29, 2008

Lila making her sneaky face at the High Museum in Atlanta. Ellsworth Kelly's "Blue, Green and Red" in the background. (Pun in title -- capital letters included -- not mine. ). I tell you, I look at this picture and I can't believe how grown up she looks.

October 27, 2008

I'm having some trouble typing as my hands are still thawing. I just went running and it's damn cold outside. I hate the cold. My throat aches. My lungs burn, and every part of me cringes with unhappiness.

As I ran along Lavista tonight, I once again realized how much i hate anything below 60 degrees. I also realized that, much as I try to deny it, I hate running. Give me 80 degree weather and a 3 hour intense yoga class with a heater on any day. Not this hell.

It's boring, repetitive, painful to the joints and the only way I get through it is to distract myself with music.

Tonight, though, I could not be distracted. Curse I-pod shuffle. There is no way in hell it's truly random. Otherwise, how did it randomly present endless Johnny Cash, Wu-Tang Clan, Beck and Led Zepellin. I broke my shuffle running rule again today and moved ahead, moved ahead, next, not you, no.

Why do I do this?

I dunno. It gives me time to think? Although, I didn't do too much thinking tonight. The only topic to rise above my own whinging was the thought of a book called My Jesus Yearrecently published by the youngest son of my high school rabbi, Benyamin Cohen. This is not the son I dated in 8th grade. That was Ezra. Our dating consisted of peering longingly down the hall at each other and talking on the phone at night. In memory,we lasted a few months. In reality, I think it was a few weeks. Ezra ended it because his friends thought he should. I was devastated.

This, all while running painfully past Beth Jacob, the synagogue where I davened in high school. And by davening I mean I sat with my friends and talked about other people.

Benyamin's book, which I plan to read as soon as possible, interests me on many levels. First, how brave to so openly discuss his doubts and dislikes of Judaism. It's hard enough for most of us who grew up Orthodox. Is it that much more difficult when your father is a rabbi?

Myself, I've never considered for a moment turning to Christianity. Sure, I love visiting churches, adore the iconography, and enjoy the signs and symbols in literature and life. But I've got enough confusion in relation to my own religion. Why in God's name would I make my life more complicated by turning to a religion that separates me from my family?

Perhaps if I felt strongly about religion, any religion, but I don't. I have yet to figure out how and where it fits into my life. And I have no idea what it will look like when it does.

This, by the way, took approximately two minutes to flit through my head and then I was back to my running, forward, forward. Method Man again. Didn't that song come on already? More Johnny Cash. I tried to listen but the beat was too slow. I'm a creep? No thanks, not now.

Finally, I came across one song -- five minutes long -- that made me laugh and supplied just enough energy to keep me going. As I ran along that cold, car-riddled street, past Outback Steakhouse and Blockbuster, turning along the bend by Calibre Woods beyond Kroger, Pike's nursery and onto where just houses and darker streets grace the hard concrete sidewalk that breaks a runner's knees and back, I had to smile. I listened to it twice.

October 23, 2008

We're back in Atlanta and I'm in search of a good yoga studio. My requirements?

It must be nearby. It must have drop in classes. And it must be real yoga, not the kind of power yoga that turns a relaxing, challenge for your mind and body into the equivalent of a stretching on a treadmill.

It's not too much to ask. I know this. There have been studios that fill these three requirements in every single place we've traveled. Be that a small yoga class on the dock in Bocas or the three excellent studios within ten minutes of my bed in Buffalo, they're easy to find.

Usually.

Not here. I'm having the damndest time.

Ok, well, there is one place, called Sattva Yoga & Healing within walking distance. It does fill all my requirements. The philosophy and the classes look solid. The studio is pleasant and comfortable.There's just this one, well, there's just this thing that makes me a bit hinky. You see, this place is not only a yoga studio, but doubles -- should you require it -- as a colonic irrigation center. As the sign says, Yoga and Healing (wink wink).

At first, this was a source of much jokery. Yeah, let's go to the yoga place for a root and toot. Or Noah's favorite, "Hey, we could go on a date." Can they do two at the same time? But now that I'm actually here and ready to attend classes, I'm finding it difficult to be quite so flippant. I checked the website and what I saw truly traumatized me.

Basically, you lie on your back on machine that looks like a pinball game. This contraption is called the, ahem, Colenz. Next, you insert the nozzle and lay a drape sheet over your lower half. There's a sign clearly stating, though, that the FDA requires everyone insert his or her own nozzle. For whatever reason -- a reason I am only mildy curious to know -- the technician can't do it for you. My guess: this reduces the number of fetishists coming in their door. (Or perhaps that's just an insight into my thinking I didn't need to share?) I'll stop right there with this description, but I will say the rest involves low pressure warm water, a scoop and handi-wipes.

For those of you who care to know more, you can see and read all about the ins and outs of colonic irrigation in full diagramatic detail right here. All I can say is that I've been somewhat traumatised by the whole thing since I read it late, late one night last week. And I am not generally faint at heart when it comes to discussing body functions. I mean, I have an ongoing discussion about bedsores with a nurse friend of mine, and after spending more than one night covered in my sick shivering child's vomit, well, you see what I'm saying.

Otherwise, I have found no other yoga studios within a 20 minute drive. They may be closer mile-wise, but Atlanta traffic could use a bit of time on the Colenz too. So I may have to bite the bullet and just partake of these classes even with the Colenz in such close proximity.

Hey, you never know. Maybe I'll get used to being around them. And then, who knows where things can lead. They do, after all, have TWO machines.